


this will pass like the weather

by jolt



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Clairvoyance, Jamie can see the future, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 11:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10570614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolt/pseuds/jolt
Summary: If you could see your whole life laid out in front of you, would you change things?“Do you wanna go for dinner?” Jamie asks. “On a date?”He knows Tyler says yes, and Tyler must know Jamie knows that he says yes, but he still touches Jamie’s bicep and says, “Yes,” and it’s the most beautiful syllable Jamie’s ever heard in his entire life.(Or, the Jamie-can-see-the-future AU)





	

**Author's Note:**

> The clairvoyance AU I wrote despite having several other WIPs, because I watched Arrival and had to grapple with the ending the only way I could think of: writing fic. I've never written this pairing before, so we'll see how I did. Please forgive any liberties I took with canon timeline; I had to graze over certain things and make some stuff up for the sake of the narrative. Also, apologies for the lapses in time - but I feel like it works for this trope, no?
> 
> Inspired by but not replicative of Arrival. Title is from "Honey" by Moose Blood.
> 
> Feedback greatly appreciated!

 

 

_If you could see your whole life laid out in front of you, would you change things?_

 

 

 

 

“Oh, there you are.” Tyler says, popping his head through the bedroom door. “I was looking for you.”

Jamie smiles. He’s reading an article about the draft on his iPad, but puts it down as Tyler pads into the room, settling on the bed next to Jamie. He lifts his arm so Tyler can slot himself into the space at his side.

“What’s up?” Tyler asks.

Jamie shrugs, enjoying the feeling of Tyler’s solid weight on him. “You know I love you, right? No matter what?”

Jamie’s long since stopped trying to swim upstream, resist the current. Some things are worth resisting, but not this. Not Tyler’s head on his chest, breath on his collarbones. 

 Tyler looks up at him and smiles. “I _know_ , dude.” he says, and Jamie wants to roll his eyes, deny the certainty of Tyler’s voice. “For the record, I’m glad I met you.” 

 “Is that so?”

 “ _Yes_. I’m glad I _know_ you, too.”

Satisfied, Jamie settles down, feeling the line of tension in his shoulders melt away. “I love you.” Jamie says again. “I love you.”

 

 

 

 

The first time Jamie Sees, it’s less Seeing and more feeling: the cool, salty ocean air misting against his cheek. He’s maybe three years old when it happens, and his family goes to the beach the next week.

His mom knows, of course, that he’s started Seeing because she’s a Seer too. She takes him into her arms and cradles him as if he weren’t a squirming toddler and kisses his forehead. She whispers to him not to worry, which he really doesn’t understand as a child.  

He doesn’t understand that as a teenager or as an adult, either, because Jamie has this unique knack for worrying, regardless of whether or not he’s Seen the future. 

There are other Seers who live through their tests or games or bullying ahead of time, and know what to expect when it happens to them in the correct timeline. His cousin, at age twelve, already knew who she was going to marry and how many kids she was going to have. 

 

Jamie’s not one of those Seers, though. 

 

Jamie’s visions are fuzzy and underdeveloped, half-glimpses of incoherent moments he’ll only recognize when they actually happen. At age ten, he hears the number _one hundred and twenty-nine_ and only _gets it_ eight years later, at the draft. Beyond that, everything is hazy, and Jamie can live a normal, steady life just like any other kid. Jamie’s ability to See isn’t a problem when he’s five, or when he’s twelve, or when he’s eighteen. 

No, Jamie’s ability only becomes a real issue when he’s twenty-four and he meets Tyler Seguin for the first time.

One day, Jamie’s psyching himself up for training camp, the next, he’s dreaming about Tyler Seguin the Boston Bruin standing in his kitchen. Time fizzes and pops in Jamie’s brain while he scrolls through Deadspin article after Deadspin article profiling Tyler. When he refreshes his browser, sure enough, there it is: the announcement of Tyler’s trade to Dallas. Not ten minutes later, Jim Nill’s name lights up his phone screen. 

 

_I know you_ , Jamie feels, while Tyler steadily paces towards Arrivals at Fort Worth International. He feels it so wrenched and powerful that his breath catches when he shakes Tyler’s hand. _I know you_.

 

Suddenly, the floodgates burst open and Jamie experiences a hundred different visions at once. It’s all random stuff, not particularly connected to Tyler. He sees himself walking three dogs. He sees his parents’ backyard, and a huge, warm party. He feels the kind of loss that stings in the most tender parts of his chest. He feels the swell of pride that comes from winning, lots of it. It’s a sensory overload; way more simultaneous visions than Jamie’s ever experienced. All the while, Tyler is smiling at him hesitantly, looking a hell of a lot like a kid who doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“We’re gonna do some great things here together.” Jamie says, almost without meaning to.

“Yeah?” Tyler laughs. “Man, that’d be nice.”

And he’s not at all like what people prepared him for. No — Tyler’s sharp, and he’s funny, and he’s smart, and he’s _damn good_ at hockey. He’s also entirely impossible to pin down, like a helium balloon let go in the wind. Jamie starts having more visions now that Tyler’s in the picture, but few involve Tyler himself. In fact, Jamie can’t even get a steady handle on more mundane stuff, like what Jordie plans on barbecuing for dinner. It feels like Tyler touching down in Dallas somehow skews and rearranges time as Jamie knows it.

“Are you okay, man?” Jordie asks. He’s barbecuing lamb burgers and they smell _fucking_ good how didn’t Jamie _See_ this — “You’ve been… different lately.”  

Jamie shrugs and cards a hand through his hair. He grimaces as his fingers get stuck in the gel. “I miss short hair.”

Jordie looks up from the burgers and quirks his brows. “You haven’t had short hair since, like, high school, bro. What’s up?”

Before Jamie can answer that he _feels_ different, Tyler’s standing at the patio door. He knocks on it before letting himself out.

“Sorry, I know you said the door was unlocked or whatever, but I still feel bad.” he mumbles, and steps onto the balcony, squeezing past Jamie to settle into the other chair. He sets a six pack at their feet.

The air is warm around them, the humidity from earlier in the day having settled as the sun crept lower on the horizon. Jamie enjoys evenings in Texas, the hugeness of the night and the sky and the millions of stars, scattered like visions in Jamie’s brains. Jamie Sees a lot of things, but he doesn’t know much, not really. He knows hockey, he knows how to cook marginally better than Jordie, he knows how to change a tire and how to drive stick.

But, as Jordie slides the burgers onto the plate, and Tyler cracks open a beer and follows him inside, Jamie feels like he _knows_ Tyler. Like that knowledge is buried deep in his marrow, and there’s no extracting it, not for all the stars in the goddamn sky.

 

 

Training camp and preseason are gruelling, as always. Despite sticking to a rigorous summer workout routine, Jamie still feels sluggish and heavy, and it’s a challenge to throw himself into drills and scrimmages the way he wants to. Tyler sets a quick pace in practice, and a lot of guys try to match it. Few succeed. 

At first, Jamie thinks maybe he’s showing off, but then he remembers the way Tyler loves teasing Jamie with his abs and his cocksure grin and realizes he’s _definitely_ showing off. He loves hockey and he loves the spotlight, and it’s a killer combination that gnaws at something deep in Jamie’s stomach. When they’re put together on an offensive line for the first time, Jamie’s mind starts whizzing out of control and that’s when he sees it: the Cup.

He’s hoisting the Cup high above his head. His playoff beard is much fuller than anyone — including himself — ever expected it to be and it’s surprisingly itchy. Droplets of beer catch in the thick hairs when Patrick Sharp tilts the Cup above his mouth. Jamie wants to drown in Cup beer, he wants to drown in this moment. This is all he wants. It’s all he’s ever wanted for as long as he can remember, since before he was a Seer, even. Tyler’s watching him from across the room. He’s cheering and yelling with Rous in the far corner, and Jamie can barely see him above the other guys, but his eyes are trained right on Jamie, gaze burning straight into him. 

There’s no year in the vision, but Jamie knows with a certainty he feels heavy in his bones, that it’s fixed.

Jamie’s ability leaves impressions on his psyche, glaring technicolor occasionally marred by blurry edges and hazy voices. It’s a flourishing of sensations so vivid it’s like he’s already lived all these tiny moments. Some things change, fluctuate, malleable like clay. If Jamie turns right instead of left, if he stays back one night instead of going out with the team, if he passes the puck instead of taking a shot, the future rewrites itself accordingly. Other events are fixed, permanently woven into the fabric of time and space. It's how Jamie knows they win the Cup, but also how he doesn't have a clue when or where or after how long of this constant losing effort. Winning the Cup is a fixed event, but when Jamie accidentally misses the exit for the practice arena one morning, his brain gets fuzzy in order to compensate for the shift in events, in the future. When Tyler enters the picture, well, ditto. 

Distinguishing between the two types of visions is where Jamie runs into trouble. He wishes he knew how to interpret half of what he Sees, that he could understand even a little bit of his ability beyond the sensory. Jamie’s left grasping the loose ends of these visions, desperate for some way of reparation, to slot them logically in his mind. But that’s not how it works. He wishes time weren’t so circular. 

 

 

(Jamie’s not sure what kind of Seer is better: the kind like his cousin, or his kind. Or, rather, what kind of Seer has the easier end of the stick. Jamie envies the certainty that comes from knowing linear time like a freckle on your hand, the light on your porch. The Seers that know exactly how their lives are meant to progress have it easy. Figures Jamie would be dealt a tougher hand, but with that comes the ability to live his life, to make decisions. There’s something to be said about that.)

 

 

 

Jamie loves winning. He's always hungry for it, for the final alarms to sound, for jumping onto the ice and crashing into his teammates and feeling like a hero. For finding Tyler's face in the mess of white or victory green and smiling at him, bright and unstoppable. For Tyler finding him, later, after media scrums and showers, and touching his chest, looking up at him with something behind his eyes that reads like a challenge, an invitation.

 

 

But this is a game. This is the National Hockey League, and they don't always win.

 

 

 

"How do we keep losing if you can see what happens?" Tyler asks. It doesn't sound like the usual mix of curiosity and awe he intones whenever he asks Jamie about his ability. It sounds like he's frustrated. Mad. "Can't you just see where the puck's going to be and stop it before it gets in our net?"

"Of course I can't just _see_ where the puck is going at all times." Jamie answers, frustrated himself, exasperated that they keep having this conversation. This is where his ability always gets him into trouble, always runs him into a corner. “I wouldn’t be allowed to play at all, if I could. Half the time, I don't even see whether we win or lose."

"What about the other half of the time? Are we really all killing ourselves out there trying to win, when you already know we lose? God, do you not even _try_ when you know what's going to happen?" 

He's raising his voice. Jamie really hates how much they're fighting. He gets that Tyler's just confused and pissed tired of losing and he doesn't understand, but that was crossing a line and Jamie’s suddenly _furious_. He stands up from the couch, and the movement makes his head rush.

 "Yeah, fuck you too." He snarls. "How could you even think that? I go out there every fucking day and try as hard as I possibly can, I give everything even when I know we don't win, because I _have to_. And you know what? I'd like to see anyone else try that knowing half the things I know.”

Tyler deflates a little. “Sorry.” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “Can we stop fighting now?” 

The question makes him sound impossibly young, and Jamie glances at him to see that his shoulders are slumped.

“Yes,” Jamie answers, “I know for a fact we can.”

It’s not entirely true. There are more fights coming. But Tyler can probably figure that out without being a Seer.

 

 

 

(The truth is Jamie goes out and plays until his hips nearly crumble, until it hurts to walk, even on off days. He tries and he tries and he fucking tries because this is his life. He loves hockey. He knows hockey. And this is his life.)

 

 

  

Jamie spends most of the post-season with Tyler, both of them taking their time moving home and out of Dallas for the summer. After getting knocked out of the playoffs, Jamie’s visions settle down a little. At first, he figures it’s the emotional toll, but after a few weeks, he thinks it might just be a result of spending so much time with Tyler. Tyler grounds him, in an odd, relieving way — a grim contrast to when they first met and the ensuing calamity in Jamie’s mind. Jamie still draws time shaped like a circle, but something about being with Tyler now slows down the inevitable. Like Jamie could spend an afternoon in Tyler’s new backyard and it would last a whole year, and carry him through all sorts of unpleasant moments he senses on the horizon. 

There are pleasant moments on the horizon, too, Jamie remembers. He just has to remind himself of them more often. He wants to look on the bright side and, watching Tyler’s jaw work on a bite of steak, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, smile caught in the setting sun, he realizes that Tyler _is_ the bright side. 

And if that’s not the revelation Jamie’s been waiting for, then. Damn.

 

 

 

Certain things about Tyler become fixed the more linear time unfolds before them. Tiny imagines roll through Jamie’s brain in scattered shreds: Tyler’s face when Jamie’s inside him, the smiley faces Tyler makes out of blueberries in his pancakes, Skyping Tyler’s mom together. Waking up with Tyler in his bed is a vision so tangible and clear Jamie swears it’s already happened. They’re like polaroids of a life Jamie has yet to live, and he wonders if this is the result of being a Seer, or of having a ridiculous, transparent crush on his linemate.

It doesn’t seem fair that he gets to See all that, before Tyler’s even considered Jamie as something more than an awkward friend. But not much about being a Seer is very fair in the first place.

 

 

 

Happiness comes in bursts. Jamie’s happiness, more often than not, is moderated by what he Sees, and what he chooses to interpret from that mess. Lately, though, he’s been trying to let himself be happy. And when the season starts back up again in October, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t want to let himself.

 

 

 

In January, Jamie feels like he did when he was eighteen, when the word _one hundred and twenty-nine_ washed over him in this moment of enlightenment, something he Saw when he was ten finally locking into place. The team has been at an overpriced bar for the past three hours celebrating a huge win over the Senators, and Tyler’s been treating Jamie to shots all night. Being drunk both amplifies and silences his ability, depending on his mood and mental state. Tonight, it feels dulled; he knows what he’s already Seen, but when thinking about future events, it’s all static in his mind, and Jamie’s rolling with it. When Tyler keeps staggering into his side, Jamie doesn’t give a damn about what’s coming. All he knows is what he wants now.

The suggestion to go back to the hotel is too easy. 

The night could go a hundred different ways from this point on, Jamie knows. But he still guides Tyler through the lobby and up to their floor, hands settled on Tyler’s shoulders in what feels like not nearly enough contact. Not knowing what comes next is exhilarating, the usual weight tethered to him suddenly vanishes and all he can think about is the Tyler’s heat burning a hole through his palms.

Tyler breaks free of Jamie’s grip. He staggers a few paces down the hallway before turning around sharply.

“Tell me about the future.” He says.

It’s a loaded question. It always is.

“What do you wanna know?” Jamie asks, amused. Tyler leans against the wall and looks up at Jamie. His pupils are blown beyond belief. So maybe Jamie feels like he’s eighteen in more ways than one.

“Do you ever kiss me, in the future? Or do you keep me waiting?”

It’s embarrassing, having Tyler’s undivided attention — it makes him self-conscious and awkward because Tyler is just so _much_ , and most of the time, he makes Jamie feel like the loser kid trying to talk to the hot girl. Tonight, though, Jamie feels his body move on autopilot, that particular brand of reckless only Tyler could draw out of him. He responds by pressing his forearm against the wall next to Tyler’s head, leaning his weight on it so he’s hovering over him. He’s not that much taller than Tyler, but the movement expands him and emphasizes the size difference between them. Tyler’s tongue darts out of his mouth to lick and then bite his lower lip.

Jamie leans in closer and Tyler’s there, meeting him halfway like he always tends to — somehow always knowing Jamie’s next move before Jamie does, which is ironic in a way that brings a smile to Jamie’s lips before they collide with Tyler’s.

“I _missed_ you,” Jamie says, without knowing why. He’s breathless.

Tyler doesn’t reply, but his smile intensifies by a few thousand megawatts. Jamie leans in and kisses him again. And again. And again.

 

 

 

“Do you wanna go for dinner?” Jamie asks. “On a date?”

He knows Tyler says yes, and Tyler must know Jamie knows that he says yes, but he still touches Jamie’s bicep and says, “Yes,” and it’s the most beautiful syllable Jamie’s ever heard in his entire life.

 

Jamie’s cousin knows exactly who she’s going to marry. She knows about the fights they’re going to have, and what they’re going to name their children, and when she’ll get promoted, and whether they get goldfish or a cat. Her life is laid out in front of her for her to follow. Jamie, on the other hand, still feels like his visions are waves cresting around him, and rather than on a path, he’s caught up in a hurricane. Months go by and Jamie’s still trying to let himself be happy, and with Tyler, he’s _so_ happy. But sometimes he worries.

“What if I have a bad vision?” He asks Tyler, bracing himself for rejection. They don’t talk much about Jamie’s ability, and Jamie likes that, the anonymity of it. Tyler’s known about it for over a year, but there’s a difference between knowing a Seer and dating one. He worries, though, that talking about it will tip Tyler off and make him realize that he doesn’t actually want this anymore. Jamie scours his brain for something, a thread from the future that might indicate that possibility, but he comes up short. It’s still those blueberry pancake smiles.

“Then, you’ll tell me, and we’ll deal with it.” Tyler says like this is the easiest decision to make, and he’s not setting himself up for epic disappointment by dating a Seer. “ _Have_ you had any bad visions, though? Bout us?”

“No.” Jamie bites back _Not yet_ because he’s not about to be melodramatic when Tyler’s hand is slowly creeping down his abs, settling at the waistband of his shorts.

“ _Exactly_.” Tyler replies, sinking to his knees and _oh_ that’s where this conversation is headed.

 

 

 

When push comes to shove, they don’t get rings, because Jamie gets fidgety enough with his hands as it is and Tyler worries he’ll do something stupid and misplace it. Instead, they get each other’s numbers tattooed carefully on their ring fingers, small and tasteful and _there_ , whether they’re on or off the ice.

It’s the most painful of Jamie’s tattoos because of the thin, sensitive skin on his finger, but once it’s there, he can’t stop staring at it. Tattoos are permanent, they’re forever, time be damned, and Jamie catches the significance and runs with it. 

(He’s pragmatic enough to know that tattoos may be forever, but relationships aren’t always. But fuck you, he’s a _newlywed._ )

He keeps picking Tyler up, slamming him into walls, fucking him stupid, both of them high on that honeymoon feeling. He feels reckless and happy and he doesn’t think it would be so bad if time could loop and loop forever, like an afternoon in Tyler’s backyard.

 

 

 

What’s that expression — _the higher you climb, the further you fall_?

 

 

 

The stupidest thing about his “ability,” Jamie thinks, with bold quotes around the word, is the lack of warning he gets. Visions aren’t like dreams, you don’t ease into them, warm and comfortable. They hit you like a truck — and sometimes they hit particularly hard. Jamie tries not to resent it too much, because that’s just how it works, and complaining won’t change what he Sees, but. When Jamie’s in the shower, he has a vision. It’s one of those visions that feels like he’s living it, feels like his body’s been transported and that, somehow, time is moulding itself around Jamie’s mind. It’s a fully-formed vision, and he has to grip the tiles on the wall while he rides it out.

"It doesn't help, you know," Tyler says, "when you tell me these things."

They’re sitting next to each other on the sidewalk in front of a lame bar. The team’s inside, and Jamie can hear them — the loud, raucous fuckers — over the sounds of cars and music and Tyler’s trained, laboured breathing. They’re not touching.

Jamie wishes he knew what this future iteration of Tyler was talking about. He wants nothing more than to cradle his jaw in his hands and press kisses to his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. He doesn’t, of course. Of _course_ , future him is even more cautious about his boundaries with Tyler than he already is. Jamie huffs a laugh even though he doesn’t find it particularly funny, just — ruthless, how time always catches up to him.

“I thought you might want to know.” Jamie answers.

“Well, I _don’t_.” Tyler snaps. “I don’t want to know everything, Jamie. I’m sorry you know all sorts of stuff about the future, and you get to see all my flaws and all our baggage ahead of time, but can you just… leave me out of it?” 

He’s pleading. Jamie’s heart feels like it’s about to collapse in on itself, crushed by the weight of his contracting chest. Time starts bending again, when Jamie spots the tears tracking down Tyler’s cheeks and into his beard. In a fucked up way, it reminds Jamie of the Cup, the beer, the gazes from across the locker room.

“So what happens now?”Jamie asks. “How do we move past this?”

“I don’t know, Jamie,” Tyler replies, “I don’t know if we do.”

Tyler’s not angry in this future, though, he’s sad. Dejected. Jamie knows with a fair amount of certainty that it’s his fault.

 

 

 

Jamie is privy to a whole host of information about the future, about the constantly evolving, twisting, bending nature of time. He knows all sorts of things he wishes he didn’t, knowledge he never asked for. Twenty-seven years old and he still feels about an inch from flying off the handle.

"Where's the line?" He asks his mom over the phone, forcing himself to breathe. "How much can I tell people? Where's the line?"

"Sweetheart," his mom says, sounding sympathetic, “you have a gift. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like one.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I still don’t fully understand it, you know,” she admits, “but I live with it. And I’m happy as I can be, considering.”

“I _know_ things, mom. It feels like I’ve known these things my whole life, and now I don’t know how to live with them.”

“You have a choice to make. You have to decide for yourself how worth it this is.” The line is quiet for a moment, and Jamie barely hears his mom add, “How worth it _he_ is.”

 

 

 

He doesn’t deserve Tyler — not now, not ever. Tyler is just so _fucking_ magnificent, patient and generous and kind, and it makes Jamie’s throat go all tight. He doesn’t understand why Tyler’s always so willing to open himself up to Jamie, when all Jamie truly succeeds at is ruining things. He doesn’t know why Tyler keeps letting him. Him and pesky ability and his penchant for honesty.

But Tyler told him — he _told_ him — to say something if ever Jamie had a bad vision, and. Jamie did.

“Come on, Ty, I can’t _control_ what happens. I just see it.”

“Don’t you have a choice?” Tyler demands.

“Sometimes.”

“That’s bullshit. You always have a choice.”

“Do you think I should have made a different one?”

Tyler takes a deep breath. “I just wish this didn’t hurt so much.”

 

 

  

Maybe he’s wrong, Jamie thinks. Maybe all of this is wrong and none of the shit Jamie worries about happening will actually happen, and his judgment is skewed, caught between natural anxiety and the leaden pressure on his chest from all the things he’s Seen. Maybe Jamie will wake up tomorrow morning without a fucking _clue_ about what happens in the future and he and Tyler will skate circles around each other at practice and they’ll figure it all out together.

 

 

  

It's not looking good for them, playoff-wise. Jamie tries not getting frustrated, tries framing the golden vision of the Stanley Cup in the forefront of his mind while he puts his nose to the grindstone and still ( _still_ ) hurls himself forward towards that moving target, and he aches from it every morning. The thing with knowing time’s little secrets is that there is a lot of patience involved in getting where you want to be. Often, it feels like everything is happening at once. But they haven’t won the Cup yet. That, Jamie knows. 

Instead, Tyler gets a hat trick. Three of his shots find the back of the net, and two of them are off Jamie’s assists, and it makes the commentators and everyone in the AAC throw around buzzwords like _chemistry_ and _dynamic duo_ and _unstoppable_. The guys holler for a solid four minutes when the pair of them enter the locker room.

Media is crazy. From where he’s flubbing his own interview, saying _uh_ every two words like a freaking rookie, Jamie catches Tyler’s eye. Tyler winks at him and he’s got that electricity running through him.

They go back to Jamie’s together instead of going to the bar, which earns them a round of well-deserved chirps, considering they earned the first and second stars of the night. Jamie can’t explain it, but there’s an urgency tugging him through all his movements. His hand latches onto Tyler’s thigh in the car, and the muscles underneath feel brand new to Jamie’s touch. 

Tyler’s idea of celebrating involves blasting his awful dance playlist on Jamie’s surround sound and doing a victory dance around the living room with a Bud Light in his left hand. He’s not even trying, but he’s still an infinitely better dancer than Jamie will ever be. He tries goading Jamie into dancing with him, but Jamie, with his hips and his dignity, declines in favour of watching him from the couch.

Jamie doesn’t deserve him. He’s been thinking that a lot, lately, and it’s never once ceased to be true. He can’t believe Tyler hasn’t realized it yet.

The dancing settles into Tyler swaying gently, inching closer to Jamie with a smile ghosting his lips. He’s being ridiculously sexy and he knows it, too, canting his hips in the way that drives Jamie crazy.

“So, Mr. Hatty, what do you wanna do now?” Jamie asks, already grinning like an idiot, feeling winded under Tyler’s gaze.

Tyler crawls across the couch, closing the distance between them. "Let's make a baby." he says seductively, practically purring.

Jamie tosses his head back and laughs before grabbing the back of Tyler's neck and pulling him in for a kiss. _God_ , he loves him.

 

 

 

The time difference between Dallas and Montreal isn’t so bad that Jamie figures it’s probably okay if he calls Jordie this late. Jamie knew he was getting traded years ago, which is fucked up to think about. Jordie was never in the Stanley Cup vision.

Jamie drums his fingers against his knee waiting for Jordie to pick up.

“What’s up?” Jordie answers on the third ring, foregoing _hello_. Relief floods through Jamie’s body at the sound of his brother’s voice. It’s a daily comfort he took for granted when they were living together.

"How's Montreal?"

"Cold." Jordie replies. “Awesome. Crazy. It's Montreal.”

Jamie hums, as though he can even imagine what it must be like. “You’re doing really well.”

“Am I?” Jordie asks, amused, fond. “I’ve only played one game.”

“You know what I mean.”

“How’s the team?” 

Jamie knows what he means by that, too. “Been better.” Jamie replies. “He wants to know why.”

Jordie pauses. “Why what?”

“ _Why_ all of this. Why did I do it.”

“Oh, Chubs,” it doesn’t sound like much, but Jamie knows he’s concerned, “don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I made a choice. Sometimes it feels like I chose this for him, and he resents me for it.”

“Hey, I know you keep your cards close, but you’re not the only one who made that choice. Maybe it doesn’t feel that way, but whatever’s happening, whatever’s going to happen, that wasn’t just you. Whether he believes you or not.” Jordie’s voice anchors him, and when Jamie closes his eyes, they’re seven and nine years old playing ball hockey in front of their house. “And, come on, you deserve to be happy, too.”

“Now you sound like mom.”

Jamie can practically feel Jordie’s smile over the phone. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 

 

 

Nothing in time ever disappears; everything has their moment to come into being and fade away like a firework, like lightning, like a supernova, but nothing disappears. Of all the possible ways life could unfold, hundreds of millions of infinite ways, Jamie finds himself not hating this one. Nothing in time disappears, but life has a way of shuffling things around when you least expect it to. When you most expect it to. Tyler’s head is on his chest, and Jamie thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep already. He grabs his iPad and unlocks it to the article on the draft.

Tyler stirs. Quietly, he says, “I’ll always love you, too, Jamie.”

Jamie hesitates. He opens his mouth to say something, but Tyler cuts him off — “ _Don’t_. Don’t say anything.”

 

 

  

Jamie inhales. He embraces it, despite everything.

 

 

 

 

Jamie opens his eyes when he hears Lindy clear his throat.

“Big night tonight, boys,” Lindy says, “home opener. Lots of eyes are gonna be on us, lots of eyes are gonna be on _you_.” he directs that at Tyler, who nods once. Nobody seems to understand the pressure of making a good first impression after a high-profile trade quite like Tyler does.

When they surge out of the tunnel and onto the ice, the crowd cheers, but they’re more reserved than usual. Like they’re just observing, for now, waiting for something to happen.

Jamie does his usual warmup, taking a couple of quick laps around the ice and occasionally lobbing a puck at the net. He takes it slow, takes it in stride. When he looks over his shoulder, Tyler seems do be doing the same thing. He doesn’t look nervous; he looks confident and ready. Jamie slides towards Tyler while working on his stick-handling. The music is blaring and the crowd is still cheering, still waiting.

Tyler beams up at him. Jamie skates one more loop around the net, and comes back to bump their shoulders together.

 “You ready?” Tyler asks.

“Yeah.” Jamie says.


End file.
